


The best way to heal a broken heart

by ShipsAreWorthYourPain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Because cookies are amazing, Cookies, Crack, M/M, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Spying on your crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 17:04:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3454991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShipsAreWorthYourPain/pseuds/ShipsAreWorthYourPain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty kidnaps Mrs Hudson for nefarious reasons. Or are they so nefarious?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The best way to heal a broken heart

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for my friend Laura's birthday, so this is for you, little Cookie Monster :)

Mrs Hudson had woken in a comfortable armchair. She slowly opened her eyes in a drug-induced haze. Gosh, what they had given to her was stronger than what her husband used to give to his clients! Her lids fluttered and she came to her senses, in a… kitchen?

 

“Mrs H.” A voice rang in the otherwise silent cooking-space.

 

“I see you have awoken. I dare hope you are not too disturbed by this change of scenery.” The stranger’s voice had a vague sense of threat to it.

 

“Oh boy, I do hope for your own sake that you have not kidnapped me because you wanted to attract Sherlock’s attention. He can be quite the angry tenant when I am in danger, you know…” Mrs Hudson answered, unfazed.

 

“Hmmm, aren’t you even a bit afraid of me?” The dark-haired man asked, seemingly bemused by her level-headed attitude. “I am, after all, a stranger who _did_ just kidnap you…” He added.

 

“Come on, boy, tell me why I should be freaking out, then. And give me your name, it is quite rude not to have introduced yourself.”

 

“Excuse me, Mrs H., for my unforgivable lack of manners. My name is…” He posed with a smirk, visibly entertained by his own dramatic performance. “Jim Moriarty.”

 

“Err, am I supposed to start screaming or something like that now?” Mrs Hudson asked, raising an eyebrow. “Anyway, could you please either tell me why I am here or return me to my own kitchen, I have dinner to prepare.”

 

“Ah, the kitchen… Yes, this is the reason you are here….” Another pause for dramatic effect. Completely ruined by the light blushed that had started to colour his cheeks. “Actually, I want cookies.”

 

Mrs Hudson laughed whole-heartedly.

 

“Sorry, sorry, Jim. I’m sorry, but… Really? You kidnapped me for _cookies_?”

 

The man looked offended, if the crimson colour he had taken was any clue to his state of mind.

 

“Stop that! I’m a criminal mastermind, I’m the only one allowed to laugh at people!”

 

“But…” Mrs Hudson could barely control her hilarity. “Why? I mean, why can’t you just bake your own cookies? I’m not your housekeeper, you know.”

 

“Well… Let me explain.” Jim couldn’t resist an opportunity to bother someone with one of his stories, with his favourite main character: himself. Especially when it also included his best enemy (and secret crush), the one and only Sherlock Holmes.

 

“It was on a sombre and gloomy night. Fog was covering the streets of London, when I arrived, coated in the dark, and utterly silent, as usual (he had actually tripped on a bin which made an enormous bang, but nobody had noticed it, so that was all that counted.). I was there to concoct a trap for Sherlock, and hide a body in his bathroom. (He couldn’t really admit that he had been there to spy on Sherlock taking his bath, now could he?)

 

Then, I saw a both deeply unsettling and revolting scene. I had barely taken a step inside 221b when, on the couch, I saw Sherlock and John _having dinner._ I mean, isn’t it gross to have dinner on the couch like that?”

 

“Well, it certainly might prove messy Jim, sure.” Mrs Hudson agreed innocently.

 

“…” Jim stood dumbfounded for a moment, lost in his memories.

 

“I then smelled the most delicious smell I had ever had the pleasure of smelling. And I saw those cookies. The kitchen door was open so that I could just get a glimpse. But between those cookies and me, there was the _couch_. With Sherlock and John on it. I deduced instantly, from the basket they were carefully disposed on, that they had been made by their housekeeper.”

 

“Not their housekeeper!” Mrs Hudson interjected.

 

“So I kidnapped you.” Jim concluded matter-of-factly.

 

When he saw that his conclusion did not seem so logical, he became even redder, which Mrs Hudson had presumed was impossible, and he stammered. “I want cookies because Sherlock isn’t paying attention to me and he’s paying attention to John and that’s not fair because I’m so much more intelligent but then normal people are adorable and…”

 

“Oh, poor dear, you want cookies for a broken heart?” Mrs Hudson cooed. “There you are, I’ll make you some.” And she started rummaging through the cupboards looking for the ingredients.

 

And she made him cookies that looked like hearts and he did not burn them. And they talked about John and Sherlock.

 

Just because Mrs H. really shipped Johnlock and was dying to be able to tell someone about them.

 

 


End file.
